Christmas Storm
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: She hoped the storm would wash away the signs.


The air was charged, freezing rain falling in heavy torrential sheets, lightning flaring brightly, tearing across the sky, and she whimpered softly to avoid crying out from within the old, rotting shack where they sat, waiting for the storm to ride itself out.

Her companion's icy eyes flickered to her for the briefest of moments, "What's wrong?" He asked, seemingly apathetic. She knew he did not expect a reply as he fumbled in the pockets of his pants for a cigarette, fumbling to light it. The flame, short-lived as it was, was incredibly comforting; the lighter in his long slim fingers was beautiful silver, intricately decorated with ornate swirls.

He had beautiful hands, pale, each finger long and thin, nearly delicate. They were graceful, an artist's hands

Finally, she raised his eyes to meet him, and she was drowning in pools of molten silver. His eyes were the flesh ripped from the moon, full and silver, wide and deep set in his pale, chiseled face.

Another interminable silence would have begun, had she not murmured, "You shouldn't smoke, you know."

"It relieves stress." She had heard the line before and he held out the package, accompanied by the sounds of crinkling cellophane. "Want to try?"

"No." Her reply was sharp. She knew he was just offering – and still smoking - for the sake of ruffling her feathers.

The storm would wash away any signs – and the pair's classified work with the Department of Mysteries, rather than narrow specialization of weather magic would mean a harder time of it…

"Then what are you doing?"

She realized suddenly that she had reached out for the package – despite all the rules she had always enforced on herself, the temptation of losing just a little of the stress that was wound within her muscles, knotted them as tightly as a sailor's sheepshank… She lowered her hand, remembering the terrible hangover that had resulted the first – and last – time she had taken the coward's way out of her problems two days ago.

That time her problem had been Ron, and, bleary-eyed and skull pounding, she had though about divorce. Their relationship had been nothing but awkward silences, dead spaces, false endearments, tied loosely together around visits to Harry's grave.

Harry. She wondered where he was – her husband accepted the lie of death, but Hermione knew that Harry Potter's grave was as empty and false as her romantic love for Ron. Harry had not been killed, spent from pouring his magic into the final battle. Harry was now the Dark Lord by default – their new mission involved this.

"Helping you quit." She grumbled, "Asshole. If you'd just talk to me once in a while maybe you wouldn't be such a pri – "

Suddenly, he whirled and she remembered how dangerous he truly was. She found herself suddenly pinned to the wall, staring up at him, nearly trembling.

Thunder rolled.

Lightning streaked across the sky.

The scene was illuminated with white light, the sky flashed palest lavender.

And his lips connected with her own in a searing kiss.

It shouldn't have felt so good. But it did. She shouldn't have moaned into his mouth, relishing the feel of his hot lips against her own in the cold. But she allowed herself to.

His long, tapered finger tips slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, pressing against her hips firmly, adamantly against her flesh. She rose her hands, intending to push him away – but his tongue found the narrow opening between her lips, forcing her to obligingly part them, and as his tongue pressed to her own, she gasped in slight shock and – guilt would later cover her cheeks with pink – pleasure. Her nails dug into his back….

She had tried valiantly to put the days of Hogwarts far behind her when they were assigned to the same team, but… Oh God, she hated him, she hated him, she hated him, she… wanted him.

He was physically attractive; she had reluctantly conceded that over the last few years. Aesthetically pleasing, even beautiful. Many nights over the last year she had woken up roughly from her sleep by Ron who had demanded to know why she had been unconsciously muttering another man's name in her sleep.

She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. He smelt nice, clean but sharp, heavenly, something she could drown in…

Ron treated her gently, as if she were a fragile doll, but she could get used to the careless, yet passionate was Draco was holding her. One hand had moved to her hair, the other in the middle of her back.

At long last, he pulled away, a sort of smirk upon his lips, which she knew were infinitely softer and warmer than they looked. "Don't try to get inside my head, Granger." He whispered, voice barely audible.

She shook her head, her mind spinning, eyes filling with tears of guilt. "I'm married, Malfoy." She managed finally, "And you – you – you don't kiss someone you hate like that." She remembered the date and whispered, "Even on Christmas."

Outside the storm raged on.

            It had the power to wash away the signs, but not guilt, shame, lust or years of hate.


End file.
